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is a gulf. He is stagnant but deep. From time to time, a trou-
ble of which the onlooker understands nothing appears on
his surface. A mysterious wrinkle is formed, then vanish-
es, then re-appears; an air-bubble rises and bursts. It is the
breathing of the unknown beast.
Certain strange habits: arriving at the hour when other
people are taking their leave, keeping in the background
when other people are displaying themselves, preserving
on all occasions what may be designated as the wall-colored
mantle, seeking the solitary walk, preferring the deserted
street, avoiding any share in conversation, avoiding crowds
and festivals, seeming at one’s ease and living poorly, hav-
ing one’s key in one’s pocket, and one’s candle at the porter’s
lodge, however rich one may be, entering by the side door,
ascending the private staircase,—all these insignificant sin-
gularities, fugitive folds on the surface, often proceed from a
formidable foundation.
Many weeks passed in this manner. A new life gradually
took possession of Coset te: t he relations which marriage cre-
ates, visits, the care of the house, pleasures, great matters.
Cosette’s pleasures were not costly, they consisted in one
thing: being with Marius. The great occupation of her life
was to go out with him, to remain with him. It was for them
a joy that was always fresh, to go out arm in arm, in the face
of the sun, in the open street, without hiding themselves, be-
fore the whole world, both of them completely alone.
Cosette had one vexation. Toussaint could not get on with
Nicolette, the soldering of two elderly maids being impossi-
ble, and she went away. The grandfather was well; Marius